vous n'avez d'oubli
by cxrmacmclaggen
Summary: The wolf sits on the side of his neck, its snout raised in a silent howl. Its body curls around his jawbone, its nose just brushing the tip of his ear. When he was younger, he thought it was for Robb.


The wolf sits on the side of his neck, its snout raised in a silent howl. Its body curls around his jawbone, its nose just brushing the tip of his ear. When he was younger, he thought it was for Robb.

Some people's marks are easy to hide, on a lower pectoral or thigh or tricep. Not Theon's, no, not his, he's been wearing his heart on his neck since he was four years old. He knows it's the reason he's still alive, knows that Ned Stark saw it, understood, and kept him instead of his brothers.

Robb, though. Theon loved him first.

The concept is achingly simple and horribly complicated. Humankind has been trying to figure it out for centuries. Every person is born with a mark, somewhere on them. It signifies who you're destined for.

That's the simple part. The complicated part: figuring out who exactly it is that your mark is for. Theon was luckier than most — or perhaps unluckier, given the circumstances. The wolf, what it signified, was always obvious: _Stark_. His father distrusted him for it, maybe even hated him for it when Ned Stark killed two Greyjoy sons and Theon was left standing.

Figuring out the wolf meant Stark was easy. Which one, though — that was the hard part.

The thing is, falling in love with Robb was as easy as breathing. Why look at any other Starks when there was Robb, beautiful, brave, first son, as honorable as his father and as clever as his mother? It was Robb, and it would always be Robb for Theon. Theon had loved him for as long as he could remember, quiet, worshipful. Robb inspired that kind of devotion in people.

Theon thought he knew. He knew nothing.

When they storm Winterfell, Theon does so thinking that it is the end.

When he mounts two heads on pikes, Theon does so knowing that it is the end.

Everything that comes after, well. Nobody can say he didn't deserve it, right?

What people don't understand is some horrible part of Theon _wanted_ to become Reek. Wanted to not think, to not speak, to not have to choose, because every decision he had made up to that point had always ended up hurting someone. To forget himself was a gift. Robb was dead and Theon was never going to be able to apologize, Theon was never going to be able to say, Robb, look, Theon was never going to be able to say anything at all because Robb was dead and had died hating Theon. What was the point?

Loved by nobody, not by his men, not by his father, not even by the one who was fated to love him. Theon Turncloak, who looked his soulmate in the eye and betrayed him. Prince of Fools, who could take a castle but not hold it. Theon Kinslayer, who murdered his should-be brothers.

The turn of events — they're not _ideal_, certainly. But it's nothing more than karma paying him back tenfold. And Theon is...surviving.

And then Sansa comes.

Theon thinks he remembers Sansa. Pretty, foolish Sansa who followed Joffrey Baratheon around like a lost puppy and never spared Theon a second look. The Sansa he had known had not yet watched her father die, had not thought all her family dead, had not been married to Lord Ramsay Bolton. This Sansa...He looks at her and all he can think is _steel_.

Watching Sansa and Ramsay, it's like his heart starts beating again. For the first time in a long time, Theon wants to think again. To speak. He wants the ability to make a choice, a change, something that is anything but this.

Because this Sansa, he doesn't know her. But her eyes meet his as she lies beneath Bolton, and Theon—

Theon's neck tingles.

For weeks, Theon shadows Sansa around the castle, watching her. He won't talk to her, no, he's far too afraid for that. But something's shifting inside him, deep, slow, more flowing magma than violent eruption. He watches her, and he _wants_. Wants what, he's not sure yet.

He watches, and waits to figure it out.

This Sansa, the one he does not know, clutches his hand like a lifeline when they jump the rampart.

He lets himself clutch back.

There's a wolf on Theon's neck that curls around his neck and his jawbone. Scars mar its face and body, but it is still distinctly, indubitably a wolf. When he was younger, he thought it was for Robb.

Sansa, though. Theon will love her last.


End file.
